FL 653

Arriving at 5:55, MSP, the International flight from Reykjavík with the firstborn on board. A three month journey throughout Scandinavia, a celebration of earning his masters in Geology. The people start to trickle through the security doors, and then - it's Leifur the Red! My son, with a bushy coppery beard, wearing that knit hat and toting his “abode” in a large duffle. After hugs, and a trip from the airport, we’re back home; the family is all together again, if only for a few days.

The wandering son, always on the go: out West, New Zealand, even seven weeks in the field in Antarctica. He's probably safer in the wild than riding home from the airport. He unpacks his gifts: Gudbrandsdalsost (Norwegian brown cheese), Molte (Cloudberry Preserves) and even a bottle of Brennivín (Icelandic schnapps). Instead of me bringing home the gifts, its his turn now.

Every year since he was twelve he has been gone most of the summer, and every year since he was seventeen he has been gone most of the year. It seems like he was a baby for a day, a child for a week, and a youth for a month. Now he is a man, school is over, and his adult life begins. It all goes by too fast.

Welcome home.

Good-bye.